


Tournament of Hearts

by sloganeer



Series: kaná:ta' still means "town" in Mohawk [5]
Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Future Fic, Husbands, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:35:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23507719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sloganeer/pseuds/sloganeer
Summary: “David, you’re watching sports.” He’s grinning, smug, like he caught David jerking off or doing their taxes.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Series: kaná:ta' still means "town" in Mohawk [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1686322
Comments: 18
Kudos: 131





	Tournament of Hearts

“I’m home!” Patrick calls out, even though David heard the door open and close. They’ve been in the house less than a year, and it hasn’t grown old yet.

He waves a hand over the back of the couch to help Patrick find him. His throat still hurts, and that’s what really sucks about being sick. He can’t call back to his husband, “In here!” And they can’t do their usual joke about why dinner isn’t on the table.

But Patrick still finds David’s hand, pressing a kiss to his palm, even though David feels clammy and gross. 

“Did you sleep?” Patrick asks, bent over the couch, pressing the back of his hand to David’s forehead.

Nodding, David rolls over, and he has just enough strength to grasp Patrick around his neck and pull him down until he falls onto the couch where David can cuddle him.

Laughing, Patrick says, “Wait! You didn’t let me take off my shoes.” 

If David had a voice to yell, he’d tell his husband to go back to the mud room and use the rack that has no other purpose than to hold his shoes and boots (David’s have a separate wardrobe upstairs), but this cold has taken it out of him. David slept all day, but not nearly enough, and while he really wants more tea, he also wants to lie here and smell Patrick’s hair.

“You’re watching curling.” Patrick rolls his head on David’s chest until their eyes meet. “David, you’re watching sports.” He’s grinning, smug, like he caught David jerking off or doing their taxes. 

“It’s starting to make sense,” he whispers.

Patrick stacks his hands over David’s heart and rests his chin on top. “That’s probably the fog of exhaustion and meds.” His eyes slide close when David combs through his hair, growing wild around his face. “Curling doesn’t make sense. That’s what makes it fun.”

After wallowing on the couch, with the Tournament of Hearts on TV, David has watched more sports today than all the bits he happens to absorb by osmosis whenever a Toronto team is in the playoffs. But curling is soothing. The rock slides from one end to the other, then back again. When the skip starts yelling at her sweepers to “hurry hard,” David just turns down the volume and watches the prairie ladies with their big arms. 

“How did Ontario do?” Patrick asks. David gives him a thumbs up. Team Homan is their hometown favourite, but David understands better why Patrick likes them. Their skip is terse and straightforward, with a sharp competitive mind. Every call she makes on the ice reminds David of watching his husband on the baseball field. 

While he doesn’t understand all the rules, David understands their purpose. It’s a comfort to know that when they arrive at the final end, the team with the most points wins. There’s no judge to bribe; there’s no need for artistic interpretation. A simple imperial measure takes the prize.

Team Ontario is going to the playoffs. David is going to sleep a little more, while Patrick whispers play-by-play commentary and rubs a gentle hand up and down David’s arm.


End file.
